What I Don’t Do Is What I Am

It’s true
I don’t compose my songs.
They come from me like a river,
like a wind released from the mountains.
Like fluttering moths
looking for a host.
They just come,
like strangers down a road,
and I know it is nuclear inside me.
The deep, burning light of a dream
that leaves no ashes,
no coals to be scattered about,
no notes to be held,
words to be studied.

It is simply my heart,
burning for a destined time,
and then no more.
So it is true,
I don’t agonize,
search for meaning,
save up subjects,
tie knots in hope,
describe false love,
put forever in small places.

I have a life.
I sleep and wake up in fear and joy.
I puzzle and trace frost with my finger,
wondering why the moon
leaves its face on a glass,
why I love so much,
why I get so tired,
why nothing is a mystery,
yet I understand nothing.
And then I know,
I am simply a sound,
a drum,
a shell in which the sea sings,
and trees whisper,
and words come,
from the shadows
of an un-composed life.